I’m writing this because I hope one day I look back at this and scoff at my own naivety, much like how I look back at my high school self in indignation for thinking I was fat.
So, hello 38 year-old self. I feel old.
Old in the sense that earlier this week I couldn’t remember if I was turning 27 or not. Yep. Old enough to forget my own age. Old enough that my cake this year merited two number-shaped candles because counting out the right amount of the normal kind has become too taxing.
(In discussing this impending special day with a group of friends, we decided once you hit the number of candles in a standard birthday candle pack, you stop there. Dump out the little skinny cardboard box, and just place them on top. No counting, no aging past what is it? 12? Is that how many they put in there?)
In many ways, I think I should become more like my eight year old self (pictured above, at yes, my birthday party, circa 1993). Because there was nothing I THOUGHT I was. No apprehensions, no insecurities, no “should.” There was no one I thought I should be, except exactly myself (plus a scandalously high-heeled pairs of Mia sandals like the ones listed #14 on this list).
I’ve heard the saying that “the creative adult is the child who survived.” Maybe the sane, happy adult has learned to pull that same childhood self along with them too.
So cheers. Cheers to cake and crepe paper, best friends forever and dads with totally awesome suspenders! Cheers to twenty-eight!